


Precipices

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has stepped over the edge, jumped into nothingness, for John Watson so many times. What's one more leap?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precipices

**Author's Note:**

> Muchas gracias to HiddenLacuna and colebaltblue for their on-call beta services. 
> 
> This was a response to the Come At Once 24 hour porn challenge. My prompt was "leap of faith".

_Now_  
*

The room is dark. Illuminated only by the streetlight outside so that Sherlock can only see the outline of things. He can see the edge of his dresser and the silhouettes of the brushes and bottles and tubes that have taken up residence there. He can see the shine of the knobs on the wardrobe. But most importantly, Sherlock can see the bunch and curl of John’s’ shoulders rising above him; can see the line of John’s arm where it disappears from Sherlock’s view.

He doesn’t need to see any more. Because he can feel. He can feel every patch of sweaty skin as it sticks to the bed sheets. He can feel the stretch in his hips where John has him spread wide across his thighs. And he can feel John’s fingers, two of them, slide slowly out of his arse and then be pushed deep again, filling him up. He moans a little every time. 

John’s rhythm is slow and steady. Sherlock is probably breathing faster than John is moving his forearm back and forth. John curls his fingers as he slides deep and Sherlock’s hips jerk. John doesn’t try to stop him. He just lets Sherlock’s straining cock fuck the air. 

It feels like they’ve been going on like this forever. The air in the bedroom is hot and stale and oppressive. It hurts Sherlock’s lungs to breathe it in. John maintains his deep and languid pattern, drawing Sherlock to the precipice but keeping him there without release. 

Sherlock’s moans grow longer, louder. He’s reached the point where he doesn’t care if Mrs. Hudson, or Mrs. Turner’s married ones, can hear him. His hips buck as John fucks him with those wide, calloused fingers. John fucks him so deeply that John’s bottom knuckles graze across the curve of his arse just before John pulls back again. It’s torturous. 

He’s vulnerable, held open by no more than those two fingers but no less exposed than a insect pinned to a spreading board. Sherlock stretches his arms toward John, but finds him just out of reach. He keeps stretching, fingers splayed out and shoulders coming up off the bed.

“John, please. More,” Sherlock begs. 

John’s only concession is to bend and place a tiny kiss against Sherlock’s sweat-slick hipbone and to leave his fingers buried deep inside Sherlock’s arse. 

“What do you want?” 

Sherlock grinds down against those irritatingly still fingers. “You. I want you on top of me, fucking me.” 

John’s fingers start to move again, sliding nearly all the way out then curling as John pushes them back in. It feels glorious but it means that Sherlock has lost. “No, you want to use me as a cover. I can go faster, or I can go slower, but this is all you get.”

Sherlock growls at him and lets his head fall back against the mattress. 

John laughs. “This is all you need. You can do it. You just need to let go.” 

Sherlock doesn’t let go. Instead, he fists the bed sheets tightly, as if he were hanging on to a ledge. 

_Then_  
**  
John stood before him, head hung down but eyes looking up as if the weight of his own thoughts was too heavy a burden to lift. 

“What is this, Sherlock?”

A log popped in the fireplace and Sherlock wished he had his violin to use as a distraction. Or as a shield. 

“What is what?” It was a stupid, obvious question. Sherlock knew. He’d known for ages this was coming. It didn’t make him any less afraid. 

John straightened at that. Sherlock’s feigned ignorance had made him angry. Good. Anger was an emotion they were both familiar with, both comfortable with. John’s fists clenched at his sides, his thumbs rubbing dangerous lines along his index finger. 

John had to unclench his jaw to speak. “Are we just friends? Friends that have fallen into bed with each other, oh, four times now, or are we something else?”

“Something else,” Sherlock repeated, a bit dazed by the conversation. 

That cold, hard smile that Sherlock relishes spread across John’s face. “Is that a question or a statement, Sherlock, because I really don’t know.” 

Instead of answering. Sherlock stepped away from the window overlooking Baker Street. He didn’t know where he was going, but standing in front of the window felt too exposed. He only made it a few steps before John’s look pinned him to a dead stop in front of the sofa. It was an awkward place to stand, not somewhere where Sherlock was usually both still and upright. It grated. 

John broke under the silence first. “Sherlock, I don’t need much. Not declarations or labels or any of that, but I do need to know where I stand. You-” He was pointing at Sherlock now, and that was never a good sign. “You know I’ll continue this, whatever it is, no matter what you answer. As long as you want to. I just, I need to know.” 

With that, the fight deflated out of John. He stood as if braced for a well-deserved punch. 

Suddenly, and as clearly as if he were in his mind palace, Sherlock saw the small space between them in Baker Street’s sitting room as a yawning pit. To walk forward, to embrace John, would mean falling in. But to not do so would mean losing him all the same. Facing the fall was terrifying. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. If he was going to fall, to jump, he needed to be specific. “What do you need to know?”

“What am I to you?”

This question was easy. Sherlock has known the answer to this question since John shot the cabbie. But voicing that answer meant stepping over the precipice between them. It meant letting himself fall. 

He was ready. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice cracked. “You’re everything.”

He waited for the impact. 

_Before_  
***  
It’s not the impact that worried him. 

He’d done the calculations. The airbag would catch him with minimal jarring. All he had to do was hit the target. It was thrilling really. 

Except for this part. This was the part that worried him. 

“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.” 

“Oh God.” 

Even through the phone, it was heartbreaking. Sherlock pushed on because he had no other choice. His tongue was heavy and the lies fell from it like lead balls. 

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

That startled a genuine laugh from Sherlock. That’s his John. The only one that can surprise him. That’s why he had to do this. 

“Goodbye, John.” 

Those words burned like acid through Sherlock’s breastbone. The clatter of his phone on the rooftop barely registered as he spread his arms wide. He kept John’s eye, because that was necessary. It was part of the plan for John to stay exactly where he was, and Sherlock keeping their gazes locked would guarantee that. And, anyway, how could Sherlock look away at a time like that. 

His arms were outstretched when he stepped off the edge and he didn’t feel afraid. Not until he lost sight of John. Those scant seconds when Sherlock could no longer see John, face twisted in sorrow and rage, but before he hit the airbag and the plan carried on were the most terrifying of his life. He was adrift with no one to anchor him. Then that panic passed and everything was a rush of well-timed, frantic movement. 

He was never sure if the sound of John screaming actually reached him as he fell, but he heard it all the same. Maybe John would know that Sherlock took this leap for him. 

Sherlock spent the next two years falling, as if he’d just tipped over the edge, buoyed up by words left unsaid but waiting for the impact. 

_Then_  
**  
The impact is harder than he thought it would be. Sherlock saw it coming, was braced for it, but John still managed to catch him a bit by surprise. As John always has. 

John hit him chest to chest, ungracefully, and they stumbled back onto the sofa. Sherlock threw an arm out, by reflex, to catch himself but only ended up hitting his elbow painfully against the wood frame of the sofa through a lumpy cushion. He landed sprawled out with John on top of him. John’s kisses were rough, biting, but Sherlock wanted it like that. He pushed back with all that he had and John met him equally. 

They rutted and buttons popped and Sherlock’s neck felt rubbed raw by John’s stubble. They grappled for position, a competition Sherlock had no intention of or desire to win, but he liked making John fight for it. Sherlock was pushed down, down off the sofa, down until his knees smacked against the floor. 

John rose to stand above him, chest heaving and cheeks stained pink. His hands clenched at his sides again, but this time there was no anger in it. Just lust and restraint. 

Sherlock launched himself at John’s half undone flies. His mouth met the tempting strip of skin just above John’s waistband where his shirt had ridden up, where it always rides up. He pressed hot, wet lips and tongue there until his shaking hands pulled John’s cock free. 

John’s cock was hard, but not all the way there yet, and heavy in Sherlock’s hand. He didn’t pause, didn’t wait, just swallowed John’s cock down in one forceful push. 

Or he tried to. He gagged instead. But Sherlock was never one to give up. Instead, he tried to push past it, to take more and more of John across his tongue and into his throat. 

John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled him back roughly. It was the sort of harsh care John had shown him since the beginning. Sherlock moaned around John’s cock and went still. He looked up at John and found John staring down at him, eyes wide and chest heaving. 

They’d done this, or close enough to this, before. Sherlock let John hold him there, cock across his tongue but not so deep that he was gagging on it. He didn’t try to take John in again. Instead, Sherlock sucked just enough to hollow his cheeks. The salty taste of John’s pre-come leaked out across his tongue in that beat of stillness before John took over. That stillness was like the edge of Barts's roof. For a moment, he balanced there. There was no fear, no uncertainty, only John above him. 

John pushed in and stopped just short of hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed as John fucked his mouth. He curled one hand around John’s denim-clad thigh and pressed the flat of his other hand against his own erection. John thrust deep, using both his own hips and his grip on Sherlock’s hair to bring them together. The rough edges of John’s open flies dragged across Sherlock’s cheeks and Sherlock’s cock throbbed. 

It was over quickly for both of them. John came hard, at first with hot pulses down Sherlock’s throat but then a sharp pull on his hair popped John’s cock free and the final streaks landed across Sherlock’s lips and chin. Sherlock came, grinding against the heel of his hand, before John even made it out of his mouth. 

Sherlock stayed on his knees, dazed, and trying very hard not to drag his fingers through the come spread across his face. That might be a bit much, but his fingers itched to do it. John hooked his hands under Sherlock’s arms and pulled him up. Sherlock found his feet, but his legs were shaky. 

John got Sherlock’s trousers open and his hand inside before Sherlock recovered enough presence of mind to stop him. Sherlock grabbed at his wrist but John had already encountered the sticky, cooling mess in Sherlock’s trousers. 

John laughed at him. John laughed at him and kissed his lips without caring that they were still covered in ejaculate. 

“That’s settled then?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded, a suspicious lump in the back of his throat. 

“Good.” John’s nod was decisive and sharp. He led Sherlock to the bathroom, stripped them both, and herded Sherlock into the shower. John’s skin was wet and warm against his back. They didn’t speak. 

They didn’t speak until John had tucked them both into Sherlock’s bed and pulled the covers up to their shoulders. They lay facing each other, a handsbreadth apart. Sherlock listened to John’s breathing. It wasn’t the gradual slide into deep and rhythmic breathing that indicated sleep. So Sherlock waited, watching John. Tension grew like a visible thread linking them together.

“I didn’t tell you.” 

Sherlock had known this would be John’s reaction. John was a man of action but he still reached for words because he felt that he needed to. Predictable. 

“You asked the questions.”

“I know. But I didn’t tell you.” 

Sherlock wanted to reach out, to touch John’s hand or hair or any part of him he could reach. But this was still too new to risk. He could pull away some invisible scab and they could bleed out before they have their chance. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.” 

John took a great gulp of air. It was an expression of relief. “Are you sure? Sure that you know, I mean.”

Sherlock did reach out then. He couldn’t stop himself. His fingertips brushed the soft skin on the inside of John’s elbow. “I’m sure.”

John did drift off to sleep them. In that three-quarters-asleep phase right before going over the edge, John straightened his arm so that Sherlock’s hand cupped his elbow and John’s palm rested against Sherlock’s neck. 

His pulse pounded there. He was sure John would feel it and wake up. That _thump, thump, thump_ against his skin. Against the heat of John’s palm. That was the impact he’d been waiting for. Waiting for years, possibly forever, to finally end his fall and to end it here. 

_Thump, thump, thud._

_Now_  
*  
“Come on, love. You can do it.” John’s fingers move faster but not fast enough. Sherlock wants it hard and fast but he also wants it deep and still and he’s torn. He grinds down on John’s hand as best he can on each thrust, and John lets him hang there for just a moment before pulling back. But it needs to be faster too. He can’t have it both ways but he still wants. 

“Faster. John!” 

John curls his fingers and presses. He’s not really moving faster, and Sherlock knows that, but Sherlock suddenly feels so much more. His back arches, lifts from the bed, and John has to clamp a hand to his hip to keep him steady.

“That’s it. Let go. Let go, Sherlock. Let go.” 

He can’t. He can’t release that ledge and fall again. John is his one point of certainty, his constant star, and John has left him adrift again. Adrift this time on waves of pleasure instead of free falling from Barts's roof 

But that warm, calloused hand is heavy against Sherlock’s hip. He’s not alone, not really. John is with him, giving him this, and it’s just one more leap Sherlock has to make for John. He’d make a thousand more if John needed it. 

Sherlock lets go. And he goes, and goes, and goes. He can hear John moan, fingers still pumping in and out, but it’s as if he’s very far away. Cotton blocks his ears and the sea rages in them. He comes long and hard. 

When he comes back to himself, John is covering him and rutting against him. He breathes heavily in Sherlock’s ear with great sobs and moans. Sherlock is oversensitive and it feels like too much, but he’s not going to let John go now. He manages to wrap his arms around John to bring them closer together. The sweat and come between them ease the way and John thrusts and grinds against the still quivering muscles of Sherlock’s stomach. 

They’re pressed together from cheek to ankle. John’s finally giving him the protection he wanted earlier, covering his vulnerabilities. But he doesn’t need it now. He’s already fallen. 

He does still need John though. Will always need John. He presses his mouth to the shell of John’s ear. 

“Come on, John. Come on. Let go,” Sherlock whispers. 

And John lets go. 

_It’s not the fall that kills you. It’s the landing._


End file.
